Beauty and the Beast

by Wendy Mass

  “Riley does not mind looking like a beast,” Alexander explains. “He only combs his hair for church on Sundays!”

  “I cannot change my looks,” I explain. “And Alexander is vain enough for the both of us.”

  “Come now,” she says, holding her hand out to me. “Let us talk while we dance.”

  And suddenly we are away and dancing. Surprisingly, I have no problem following the steps at all. Before I know it, we have made a full circle already.

  “See?” she says, her eyes glistening bright. “You are a natural!”

  Father, still atop his horse, claps.

  “And you are certain you would not like to be handsome?”

  I shake my head. I am glad that my face won’t make girls scream for me in the streets. Alexander can have that particular blessing. I know he finds it difficult to believe, but I honestly do not care what stares back at me from the mirror. Especially since I almost never gaze into one.

  “I told you,” Alexander says, grinning. “He enjoys being beastly!”

  She laughs in response, and we keep dancing. “Riley is not beastly,” she says. “A real beast would have nails as sharp as an eagle’s talons!”

  “And tufts of fur all over his body!” Alexander calls out.

  “And a nose the size of … well, the size of his nose now!” Father shouts.

  We all laugh then, even Mother.

  “Only pointed, like a hawk’s!” Alexander adds.

  Mother joins in. “With hair like a lion’s mane!” she says. “So even if he combed it, it wouldn’t matter!”

  More laughter. It is at my expense, but I do not care. I am having too much fun. “As broad as two men, and as strong as an ox!”

  “Is that all?” she teases as we begin our third time around the clearing.

  “Well, I would not mind being taller,” I admit. “That way I would be closer to the stars.”

  “As tall as a giraffe!” Alexander calls out. “Then you can pick our morning oranges straight from the branches!”

  “Done,” the girl says, her voice clear and strong. I assume she means we are done dancing, so I stop. But suddenly, I feel very strange. Heavy and hot. The ground seems to be farther away somehow. The girl’s eyes are closed. Her lips are moving, but I hear no words coming from her mouth.

  Then Mother’s screams echo through the woods and do not stop until she falls from her horse.

  “You have done well,” the apothecary tells me, peering over my shoulder. I am up to R — Rose Hips — and am getting quite an education in the tools of the apothecary trade. I had no idea so many different ingredients existed. This job is a hundredfold better than the butcher shop.

  The hours pass quickly. I learn how to boil herbs into tea over the cauldron, to grind minerals like sulfur and lead into a fine powder, how to measure dry ingredients with the scale, and wet in glass beakers. Master Werlin teaches me how to make pills by pressing the paste into a long thin roll like a snake, then cutting the roll into even sections. He has just set aside a dozen or so sections to dry when the door bangs open.

  “Please, Master Werlin,” a little girl cries. “You must help us. It is Grandfather. He came to visit me at the monastery, but he is acting strangely. I am afraid he is ill!”

  I recognize her right away. Handsome’s friend, the girl with hair so light it is nearly the color of snow.

  The apothecary reaches down under the sink and pulls out a black leather bag. “You, older sister,” he says, pointing at Clarissa. “You’ll hold down the shop. Beauty, come with me. This is part of your education.”

  “Are … are you certain?” I ask, looking from him to Clarissa.

  “I shall be fine,” Clarissa says, waving us out. “I have been listening to your lessons.”

  I find this hard to believe since she has spent most of the afternoon sampling different lotions for the face and oils for the hair. But I take off after Master Werlin nonetheless. Hopefully, when we return the shop will still be standing and there will be some face cream left over for the customers.

  I follow the pair through the streets, past the cobbler, the spectacle-maker, the fishmonger. Past the group of singing schoolchildren marching across the square. I duck my head as we run by the butcher shop. We round the corner to the churchyard and run right into Handsome, who is panting hard. He flashes me a quick smile, then turns to Veronica. “I received your urgent message. What is the matter?”

  Veronica grabs onto his sleeve and tugs him along. Handsome looks at me, but I shake my head, as confused as he is.

  We reach the courtyard between the church and the monastery. I don’t know what I expect to see — a crowd of monks surrounding an old man on the ground, perhaps. There is an old man, but he is sitting on one of the benches, bouncing the tip of his wooden cane on the ground and humming. He certainly looks healthy to me.

  “Bartholomew!” Master Werlin says as we approach. “Are you ill?”

  “I am fine,” the old man replies, keeping his eyes closed. “Should I not be?”

  Master Werlin turns to Veronica and narrows his eyes. “Your granddaughter led us to believe you were on your last breath.”

  “Veronica!” her grandfather scolds. “Why would you do that?”

  She shrugs. “I needed to get everyone here quickly. You always tell me to use my wits.”

  He shakes his head at her disapprovingly, but does not look too angry. “Yes, you should use your smarts, but use them wisely, not to lie to friends. Especially not ones to whom you are about to ask a large favor.”

  Handsome clears his throat. “Um, can someone tell me what is happening? I have three loaves of rye in the oven that will soon turn to black bread.”

  “You must be Handsome,” the man called Bartholomew says, lifting his face toward where Handsome stands. “And the girl, Beauty? Is she with you?”

  “M-me?” I stammer in surprise. How does he know my name? He turns his head toward me. Even though I know he is blind, it is as though he can see right through me. Although the old man is not frightening, I still find myself shivering.

  “Yes, Grandfather, she is here, too.”

  Master Werlin sits down beside his friend. “Bartholomew, what is going on?”

  Bartholomew reaches into his cloak and pulls out the largest coin pouch I have ever seen. It bulges in all directions. Handsome’s eyes widen, too, as do Master Werlin’s. I am certain my expression is the same. Veronica’s grandfather must be quite wealthy. Why is it she lives in the monastery, then? Surely he could afford maids to care for both of them at his own house.

  “How old are you, Beauty?” he asks, drawing my attention away from the purse. I am glad he cannot see that I had been staring. And then I instantly feel shamed for thinking such a thing.

  “Beauty?” he repeats. “Are you still here?”

  I clear my throat. “I … I am nearly thirteen years, sir.”

  “Have you lived in the village long?”

  “All my life, sir.”

  “Have you gone past its borders?”

  “Um, yes, sir,” I reply, surprised at the question. “My father is a traveling bookseller. My sister and I have gone with him on many short trips.”

  “Excellent, excellent. And do you find yourself a resourceful person?”

  “Resourceful?” I repeat. “I … I am not certain. It is only of late that I have had to fend for myself. My family has … come on hard times.”

  Veronica tugs on her grandfather’s arm and says, “She will do fine! Ask her.”

  “Sweetheart,” he says, patting her on the head, “the young lady already has a job. I cannot simply steal her away.”

  “What is this talk of stealing my new assistant, Bartholomew?” Master Werlin asks. “I may finally have found someone competent. So far she has not burned half the store by leaving the dried herbs too close to the flame, turned anyone’s hair orange by giving them the wrong oil, or nearly killed a man because he had dandruff. That already sets her well ab
ove all my other previous assistants. Plus, she can read, write, and is eager to learn.”

  I am touched that he thinks those things of me! And his last assistants must have all been quite horrible.

  “What about you, Handsome?” Bartholomew says, turning away from me. “My granddaughter tells me you shall be married soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies. “A few months hence.”

  “Then I imagine you could use some extra money?”

  He tilts his head and nods. Veronica jabs him in the side in a not-so-subtle reminder that her grandfather cannot see a nod. “I mean, yes, sir,” Handsome says loudly. “I suppose that is true.”

  “And you plan to become a baker?”

  He nods again, then quickly says yes.

  “So you would call yourself responsible? Able to care for youngsters? To protect them from unforeseen harm?”

  He raises his brows at Veronica but says, “Yes, sir. I have younger siblings back in my own village.”

  Bartholomew is about to ask another question when Master Werlin interrupts. “What is this about, old friend? I need to get back to the shop before I have another misfortune to add to the list.”

  Bartholomew takes a deep breath. “I have heard rumors of late, no doubt you have, too. Rumors of strange things going on in the seven kingdoms. People going missing. Others feeling like no time has passed only to find themselves in a place other than where they thought. The last time I heard such rumors is when my daughter Katerina — Veronica’s mother — was lost to us. She had found a valuable object, a powerful object, and had gone to seek answers of its origins. She never returned.”

  A hush falls over the courtyard. Even the birds have stopped their song.

  “What we would want from you both,” Bartholomew says, his voice both firm and hopeful, “is for you to act as my granddaughter’s guardians. She wishes to follow the trail begun long ago by her mother, to seek out the truth of what befell her. I knew one day she would take on this burden, and I had hoped it would be when she was older. Yet it is hard to deny that, with the rumors flying about, the time is right. It would not be proper to send her alone with a young man. Nor would it be safe to send two girls alone. That is why both of you are the logical choice as her companions on this quest.”

  Handsome and I exchange looks. He is clearly as surprised by all this as I am.

  “Besides all of your expenses,” Bartholomew continues, “I shall pay you triple your current weekly wages.”

  I gulp loudly. Triple my wages! That would be a lot of books for Papa!

  “But I am merely an apprentice,” Handsome says. “An education is my only salary.”

  Bartholomew smiles. “I shall offer you the same wages as Beauty. And I shall provide your employers with the salary of your temporary replacements.”

  Master Werlin’s eyes widen.

  “I trust you can find a replacement easily enough, Master Werlin?”

  The apothecary glances at me. “I may have someone who could step in.”

  I hope he does not mean Clarissa. The longest she ever stays on one task is when she brushes her hair before bed.

  “So you will do it?” Veronica asks, fixing her eyes on me and Handsome.

  When neither of us answers right away, her grandfather tells us to take the night to think on it. Then he reaches out for Veronica’s arm and she helps him to his feet. Before they head toward the path, Veronica turns and smiles broadly at us. She may be young, but she is smart. She knows the offer is too good to turn down.

  The walk back through the village is a blur of sights and sounds and smells, but I notice none of them. All I can think about is the offer. For a girl who never thinks of her future, it is suddenly rushing upon me. We enter the shop (which I am relieved to see still stands) to find Clarissa dabbing on pomander from a small tin ball. Perfumes are her weakness. I should have known she would find the apothecary’s stock. She places a dab on the underside of her wrist, and is reaching her finger in again when Master Werlin clears his throat. Clarissa jumps and drops the ball on the counter where it bounces once, rolls, and finally clinks up against the large jar of leeches and stops. I am certain Clarissa had a good reason for moving the jar from the shelf to the counter, but I am not sure I want to know what it is. She quickly tosses the ball back into the bin with the rest of them.

  “That perfume is made from the shells of crushed beetles, you know,” Master Werlin says.

  Her blue eyes grow even larger and rounder than usual.

  “I am jesting,” he says. “We only use the crushed beetles in the lip coloring. That apple pomander is actually made from a substance found inside the buttocks of polecats.”

  With a shriek, Clarissa runs over to the sink and sticks both arms into a bowl of water. “Are you certain you want to take on Clarissa?” I ask the apothecary as we watch in amusement.

  He shrugs. “I have had much worse assistants. She has a pleasant bearing, and seems harmless. You do not think she is likely to poison anyone, do you?”

  “Well, not on purpose,” I reply honestly.

  “And truly, what have I to lose?” he adds. “Bartholomew would be paying her wages.”

  I watch as Clarissa reaches for the ball of soap, places it between her two wrists, and starts frantically moving it back and forth. “You are aware of what happened to our house?”

  “I shall keep the flames low,” he promises.

  “All right,” I say, turning back to watch my sister. “But perhaps you should not tell her that the pomander also contains whale intestines.”

  “Agreed.”

  And just like that, I have a new job. Again.

  “What have you done to him?” Mother shouts, her fury overriding any pain she must feel from her fall.

  The girl smiles sweetly and returns to petting her buffalo. The fact that she is petting a giant buffalo in the first place should have been a sign that something was not quite right. How did we all overlook such a thing?

  “I have simply granted your requests,” she says, her shining eyes dimming, like the setting sun on a cloudy day. “Is he not exactly like you specified? Are you not pleased?”

  “Pleased?” Father roars. “He is a beast!”

  Alexander, pale and shaken, steps forward. “Please, undo this horrible deed. We only joked of turning him into this … this creature.”

  She shakes her head. “I cannot do that.”

  “We will give you whatever you want,” Mother begs. “Riches beyond measure. Just turn our son back.”

  She shakes her head. “There is one way only, and I would not count on it.”

  “Anything.”

  “A kiss,” the girl says. “If a girl falls in love with him by the first bloom of spring, he shall become the prince again. If she discovers his identity before she loves him, the deal shall be broken.”

  “Look at him!” Alexander exclaims. “How is he supposed to find a girl to love him in only six months? Or ever?”

  I clear my throat. The sound is much deeper than I expected, almost like a growl. “Is it truly that bad?”

  Alexander nods. “Yes.”

  Mother begins to sob.

  I glance down at my arms, which feel itchy. Gone are the sleeves of my traveling shirt. In its place are tufts of fur, in a seemingly random pattern up and down my arms and on the backs of my hands. My first reaction is to scratch and pull at the fur to see if it will come off. This proves a bad idea due to the thick, sharp, eagle-like nails that now draw blood. Mother’s sobs have turned to wails.

  I am torn. A huge part of me is horrified. I, Prince Riley, second in line to the throne, lover of the stars, dedicated alchemist, devoted son and brother, am now a beast. Half man, half animal. Or animals, as the case may be.

  On the other hand, I am also living proof that one can manipulate the forces of nature. One can, in fact, change something into something else. For a scientist such as myself, evidence like this comes but once in a lifetime, if ever at all. So there
is a bright side, however dim it may be. Plus, the Harvest Ball is clearly off.

  Father marches over to the girl, draws himself up to his full height (which, I cannot help noticing, is now only as high as my chest), and grabs her by the shoulders. “I demand you undo this right now. This is an order from your king!”

  “What care I for your demands?” she asks, shaking him off with nothing more than a twitch of her shoulder. As I watch in amazement, her once bright green dress fades to a dull brown. In a voice empty of emotion, she adds, “He now has only five months.”

  Wide-eyed, Father sputters, “But you cannot … this is simply unacceptable … you must …”

  “Three months,” she says calmly. Her yellow hair turns first brown, then the color of rust.

  “Three!” Mother gasps. “You skipped right over four!”

  The girl shrugs.

  Father can only stare, speechless now. Alexander walks over to him and guides him back to his horse. Then he turns back to the witch, for clearly that is what she is. Humbly, so as not to anger her further, Alexander asks, “How will we know if a girl loves him?”

  She rolls her eyes as though it is a silly question. “She will give him a kiss, of course.”

  “But how can we take our son back to the castle like this?” Mother shrieks. “What will people say when they see him? And if they see us with him, they will think we cannot even protect our own son, let alone an entire kingdom!”

  “I cannot help what people will say or do when they see him,” she says calmly, “but the rest of you I can take care of.”

  In a blink, the three of them are gone. Simply vanished!

  I turn in circles (not easy with my new bulk and height) and call out for them. “Mother! Father! Alexander!”

  “Riley?” Alexander replies. “Do you hurt? Are you in pain?”

  I turn around again, but see no one. “Where … where are you?”

  “Why would you ask that of me? I am right next to you.”

  “But … I cannot see you. I cannot see any of you!”

  “What are you talking about, brother? I can see myself perfectly well. And Mother and Father, too.”